


Remember To Breathe

by AutisticReed



Category: Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Rogue Squadron (Star Wars), Trans Male Character, Xenophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-10
Updated: 2019-12-10
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:13:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21658090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AutisticReed/pseuds/AutisticReed
Summary: Sometimes, Thrawn must be reminded to engage in self care. In this fic, Thrawn is trans male.
Relationships: Gilad Pellaeon & Thrawn | Mitth’raw’nuruodo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Remember To Breathe

Though the Rebel unit had achieved little of tactical value, merely destroying two TIE Fighters, damaging a laser turret, and some minor electrical conduits, it seemed to Thrawn’s observation that they had achieved a clearly planned objective. Whatever that objective had been, it was clear that destruction of Imperial assets had not been a high priority. Rogue Squadron had a reputation for being efficient and effective. Had they entered the system with destruction of Imperial property as a primary objective, far more damage would have been done.

The attack had come during what should have been a change of shift. Though the  _ Chimaera _ was not strictly Thrawn’s vessel, merely his flagship, he and Captain Pellaeon often split duties, leaving Thrawn in command of the night shift on the bridge. While day and night cycles were nonexistent onboard Imperial vessels, with lighting remaining constant throughout all hours, it was, nonetheless, now almost noon Imperial Center time, some four standard hours past when Thrawn should have stood down and returned the bridge to Gilad.

Thrawn felt that familiar ache in his back and ribs that came from extended shifts without relief. While he could have transferred command to Pellaeon during the attack, and retreated to his stateroom for much-needed rest, Thrawn had felt it best that continuity of command be maintained during the attack. Now, however, the rush of adrenaline from the surprisingly real danger Rogue Squadron represented had faded, and after sixteen hours on his feet, Thrawn needed rest.

Despite his physical fatigue, Thrawn’s mind raced through myriad possibilities for Rogue Squadron’s true objective. Something else also bothered him. While the New Republic forces had been competent, something had been off with the rhythm of their maneuvers. So it was that he stood over a console, head bowed, studying holocam footage from the laser turret emplacements.

Every unit, from the fleet level to the individual combatant had its own tempo, its own  _ body language _ . The fighters may have been painted in the correct colors, their transponders correctly coded, but these pilots were  _ wrong _ . Commander Antilles was best characterised with the words snappy, bold, and creative. His second in command, Lieutenant Celchu, was smooth, precise, and cold, still a perfect fit for any Imperial fighter squadron. The fighters painted in their colors did not match their pilots’ signature flying styles.

A hand pressed firmly between Thrawn’s shoulder blades, and it was all Thrawn could do not to groan at how good that pressure felt. Only one person aboard the  _ Chimaera _ dared make physical contact with him.

Gilad leaned into Thrawn’s personal space, his voice a very low murmur, mere millimeters from his ear. “Admiral, it’s late. You’ll injure yourself.”

The phrase was intentionally vague, but Thrawn was all too aware of Gilad’s allusion. He took a shallow breath, about to object to being advised to leave the bridge, then nodded his capitulation. The Captain was correct, he had already spent too long wearing clothing that severely restricted his breathing.

Thrawn stood upright, then summarised the entirety of his shift on the bridge in short, sharp sentences, mimicking the trained clipped Coruscanti-inspired accent Imperial Naval Command favored, though his own Csillan accent bled through. Under the Galactic Empire, he was judged more harshly for being alien. While he could do nothing about his biology in that regard, his inability to completely erase all trace of his cultural identity in the way he spoke was frustrating, as it meant xenophobic microaggressions were not limited solely to face to face interactions. Though few dared mock him directly now that he was a Grand Admiral, he knew with certainty that some officers pretended not to understand him, trying to force him to simplify his language, and to repeat himself, more so than a standard Imperial briefing format required. As a Grand Admiral, he no longer indulged the xenophobes in their petty games, but he still felt the barbs of their bigotry when they tried.

His briefing given, Thrawn saluted Pellaeon. “Captain, you have the bridge.”

Pellaeon returned Thrawn’s salute. “Thank you, Admiral, I have the bridge.”

Rukh stalked behind Thrawn as he walked to the turbolift bank to the rear of the bridge. The noghri was tired too, he noted, his normally near-silent footfalls now punctuated with the gentle click and scrape of claws on metal deckplates. When the turbolift doors closed, Thrawn sagged against the wall, and closed his eyes for a moment, head tilted back as far as his uniform collar comfortably allowed. A few more minutes of discomfort, and he could finally extract himself from the prison the Imperial Navy called a duty uniform.

Obediently, the noghri pressed the button for the deck on which Thrawn’s stateroom were located.

Thrawn’s datapad chirped in his hand. If it was important, he’d hear an announcement over the ship’s speakers, or receive a call to his commlink. By the time the turbolift reached his floor, neither had happened. Three more chirps came from his datapad as the door to the turbolift opened. Thrawn stopped leaning against the wall, and straightened his uniform jacket with a sharp tug to the front skirt.

Mercifully for his aching body, Thrawn’s stateroom was situated near to the turbolifts, a decision he frequently found he was glad of. After a short walk in corridors usually frequented only by higher ranking officers and the few lower rates assigned to this duty area, Thrawn stepped into the calm quiet of his stateroom. The door hissed shut behind Rukh, and Thrawn pressed a button on the panel beside the door, dimming the lights. The opening notes of Ever Closer, Banu’s sole aria in the Kallea Cycle, played from speakers hidden among the printed flimsy books of his bookshelf. Soft was certainly the best word for the performance, he decided within moments of Amaro Fonteen’s voice joining the orchestra. Lacking the double-bass range of a Duros, the human vocalist lacked the power for the role.

Thrawn made short work of removing his uniform, a sigh of relief escaping him as the first of many uncomfortable layers of clothing came off. He hung each item neatly on a clothes hanger, until he wore only his undergarments.

This last layer was the least comfortable to wear, but also the least comfortable to remove. Its removal forced Thrawn to confront truths he was entirely uncomfortable with. However, after sixteen hours wearing his binder, health demanded he be pragmatic and accept minor emotional discomfort over potential permanent physical harm.

He sobbed in relief as he peeled the binder from around his ribs. It was always slightly awkward pulling his binder off, as it was tight enough to restrict his movement when he pulled it up over his head. It had been less difficult before he had started cross-gender hormone treatments, when the muscles of his back and shoulders had been slimmer. Now, however, his shoulders and back were thick with muscle, and left him less room to squirm within the confines of the double compression garment until he could free himself from it. He grimaced at the feel of full breasts bouncing back into place after they popped free of his binder. If only he had time to have them surgically removed. Unfortunately, by the time he had enough influence within the Empire that his taking a long period of leave for an unspecified reason would be accepted, the New Republic had come into being, and he no longer had the time to spare. The Empire needed him.

Thrawn chucked the offending compression garment into the laundry hamper, and caressed his sides. The binder had left linear bruises over his ribs where the seams had dug into him. Thrawn hissed at the sharp sting of an open sore the binder had ground into him.

Rukh watched with an expression Thrawn might have categorised as thoughtful and concerned, though truthfully, noghri were not a species he found to be particularly expressive.

Thrawn stepped into the refresher to shower. Removing his underwear forced him to confront another jolt of dysphoria. While testosterone did have some effects on genitalia, on its own, it could not replicate what being cis male would have given him. Ordinarily, dysphoria did not hit him particularly hard, but with only a week to go until his next dose of cross-gender hormones, he was hitting the natural slump of the cycle. It made him emotional and prone to being overly critical of himself. He decided then, as he stepped into the hydroshower, that it was time he discussed changing his dosage schedule. A month between treatments still left highs and lows that made it more difficult to regulate his emotions. As he was perfectly capable of giving himself the hypospray treatments, all it meant was a reduction of dosage taken more frequently. However, he was not an endocrinologist. He couldn’t say with certainty that it was safe for him to change his dosage schedule himself, and the ship’s doctor was only slightly more qualified to speak on the matter. Thrawn had found, repeatedly, that Imperial Navy doctors lacked knowledge and training surrounding transgender health issues. This was hardly surprising, given the Empire’s cisnormativity, but it was a frustration he wished he didn’t have to deal with. He made a mental note to contact his private practice doctor.

Thrawn didn’t spend long in the hydroshower, reluctant to luxuriate in a resource few aboard the  _ Chimaera _ had access to. He washed by the numbers, turning off the water while he lathered his hair with shampoo, then his body with soap, and gritted his teeth at the pain of irritants in the soap burning on contact with the pressure sore over his ribcage. He rinsed off quickly, the sooner to be rid of the chemicals burning raw skin.

As Thrawn stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his midsection, he caught a glimpse of his chest in the mirror. With a scowl, he wrapped his upper body in another towel, then left the refresher. He padded, barefoot, across the cool metal deck of his stateroom to his closet. It was another luxury afforded only to senior staff aboard Imperial war vessels, everyone else provided little more than kit lockers. Thrawn removed a set of fresh underwear, a long-sleeved thermal shirt, and a pair of loose-fitting jogging pants from it. These he pulled on only after fully drying his body, though his hair was still damp, hanging lank, but ruffled in gentle curls. He styled it by feel with his fingers to keep it under some semblance of control that would allow him to rapidly style it when he awoke in a little under six hours to begin his next shift.

Thrawn picked up his datapad from where it had been discarded on his bed, then looked at Rukh. “You may leave,” he stated.

Rukh gave a short nod, and left Thrawn’s stateroom.

Thrawn inspected the four messages he had received on his datapad. All of them had come from Gilad. Three were file transfers of the camera footage and sensor readings of the battle. The first, however, was personal.

_ Don’t study the files tonight. Sleep. You will have time to study the files tomorrow during your duty shift. Don’t forget to eat something. _

As Thrawn was reading, another message came from Gilad.

_ I have sent an order to the galley to prepare you a light meal. _

At first, this micromanaging had frustrated Thrawn to no end. He had seen it as infantilising, and an extension of the systemic speciesism shown by the Empire. Only after observation that Pellaeon did this with others had Thrawn begin to appreciate it for what it was: a result of his genuine desire for the Empire to succeed. The man had his life so well organized that he could afford to spare his time and energy to ensure others were operating at peak efficiency, and was willing to do so for the good of the Empire. If maintaining order required Gilad’s direct intervention in the personal lives of the personnel around him, he had few qualms about doing so.

Thrawn’s choice of the  _ Chimaera _ as his flagship had proven an inspired one. Gilad’s experience during the Clone Wars had forged a capable, competent man, and he greatly valued his input on tactical matters.

After the  _ honeymoon period _ , Pellaeon and Thrawn’s working relationship had grown fractious. The man’s unwillingness to question the status quo, to challenge Thrawn’s decisions, had made Thrawn second guess his decision to work with Pellaeon. He had no need of  _ yes men _ that refused to think for themselves. Creative enemies required creative solutions.

An argument that had been brewing between the two had come to a boil while Thrawn was meditating. He had not been studying visual art, but performing a slowed down Teräs Käsi kata, when Pellaeon’s booted feet had stormed in. Both had stopped their movement immediately, Pellaeon’s eyes darting to Thrawn’s chest. A momentary pause as Pellaeon processed this new knowledge, and then the man had continued his intended tirade. Thrawn had held his breath for the tirade, still waiting for the human to comment on what he’d seen.

Thrawn hadn’t handled the aftermath particularly well, mind reeling from Pellaeon’s lack of reaction. He’d merely noted that he’d heard Pellaeon’s concerns, before dismissing him. Pelleon, to his credit, had acknowledged the order, and followed it.

For weeks afterward, Thrawn had examined every interaction with Pellaeon for any sign of change in how the man treated him. It had been some time before the two had finally come to an understanding over differences in command style, but the changes Thrawn had the greatest concerns about had never come to pass.

Thrawn wrote a return message to Gilad.

_ Thank you, Captain. _

**Author's Note:**

> Written by a trans male author, thanks to someone suggesting trans Thrawn on Twitter.


End file.
